


Come Here Often?

by Sherlaufeyson



Category: American (US) Actor RPF, British Actor RPF, British Comedy RPF, Martin and Lewis, The Ratpack, US Comedians RPF
Genre: Age Difference, First Time, Fluff, Frottage, M/M, Voice Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-02
Updated: 2019-09-02
Packaged: 2020-10-05 15:56:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20491421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sherlaufeyson/pseuds/Sherlaufeyson
Summary: August 1965.What if Peter Cook had taken up the Las Vegas residency he was offered following Beyond the Fringe?The Jerry/Dean and Pete/Dud is implied - as in barely mentioned implied. Implied in that I think it's real.





	Come Here Often?

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this Michael Parkinson interview with Peter Cook in 1976: https://youtu.be/RvllzQxBqQE?t=156
> 
> **Parkinson:** In fact, you’ve not done the clubs, have you?
> 
> **Cook:** I’ve not been asked, no.
> 
> **Parkinson:** But if they did ask you, do you think you might take it up?
> 
> **Cook:**  
No – I wouldn’t do it anymore - I [was] once offered a ludicrous thing, which was a stand up role in Las Vegas. That was in 1965. $10,000 a week, which is a lot of money, and I said, ‘But I haven’t got an act.’
> 
> He said, “Well, never mind, Peter – nobody cares about that. It’s just a small room, Peter.”
> 
> I said, “Well it may be a small room, but I’m still making an arse of myself, aren’t I?”
> 
> He said, “Oh - another thing, Peter - nobody will hear you. They’ll all be talking amongst themselves and waiting to get back to the gambling, so there’s really no worry for you there. You just pick up the money and talk for half an hour.”
> 
> I couldn’t face it, I didn’t have the nerve. I would now, if you’re listening, Lou.

Peter Cook was sitting at the bar on the ground floor of the Sands hotel, nursing a gin and tonic. It was his evening off and he had just felt like a quiet drink, maybe a spot of people-watching. Nothing particularly excessive. 

The place was quiet. It was a Monday, and barely gone eight o’clock.

He sensed someone slide onto the barstool to his left and tried to gauge the sort of person it might be with a sidelong glance.

There was very little chance it was someone who had recognised him. On a good night he was lucky to play to a crowd of a hundred, and not one of them was likely there to see him specifically.

Still, it was easy money, and if nothing else, it paid his rent and alimony and left him plenty for a decent gin and tonic at the end of the night. 

A deep velvet voice sounded near his ear. 

“Come here often?”

Peter’s head whipped around before he had a chance to control its motion. The line was corny as hell, but as for the man who had said it – he’d suddenly found himself face to face with Dean Martin.

He couldn’t help his intake of breath and with every passing second was wishing he had more control over his own motor functions. 

Dressed in a sharp tuxedo, bowtie undone and nursing a glass of scotch in his left hand, Dean was the picture of elegance and maturity and Peter had never felt more like an underdressed schoolboy. He was not used to feeling underdressed, and had thought he hadn’t looked too shabby when he’d left his hotel room in black suit and tie. That was before the Italian crooner had sidled up to him. 

Dean had a cigarette held loosely between two fingers of the hand holding his drink and was smiling down at him indulgently. That was new as well. Even sitting, it wasn’t often he met someone tall enough to look down on him. Not in Las Vegas, in any case. 

Coughing politely to clear his throat before his voice unexpectedly escaped at an octave higher than he’d like, Peter answered. “It’s my night off.”

Dean took the answer as an invitation to sit down and perched himself on the bar stool. The pictures really didn’t do him justice. His cheekbones looked like they could cut glass. Peter felt an immediate and inexplicable compulsion to run his tongue along his strong jawline. He was broad across the shoulders, his chest filled out his suit nicely and Peter had to physically hold himself from falling towards him. 

He knew he was vaguely star-struck, but suddenly had an appreciation for the phrase ‘falling over ones self’.

“Dean Martin,” Dean introduced himself, offering his right hand. 

After a beat, Peter took it. “Peter Cook”.

Dean’s smile broke into a grin. “You know, I thought you were.”

“You thought I was what?” Peter asked confused. He didn’t miss the flash of mischief cross the older man’s face.

“You were in Beyond the Fringe.”

Peter was taken completely aback. He knew they had been big news for a short time in New York, but not ‘Dean Martin’ big news.

“You… saw the show?” He asked, still not entirely convinced this wasn’t a set up.

“Jer and I caught it last year. You were really something.”

“Oh, well - thank you. I-” Peter cut himself off before he could finish his thought.

Dean caught the aborted phrase and prodded, “You what?”

“Well, I don’t mean to pry…“ Again, Peter caught a playful twinkle in Dean’s eye. “But didn’t you two – break up?”

Dean tapped his finger to the side of his nose twice. “Sometimes it pays to be discreet about these things. No paparazzi if they don’t think there’s going to be a story.”

Peter knew when he was being chatted up. He’d been fending advances off most of his life, but this was something else. This was Dean Martin, smelling of smoky backrooms and expensive whisky. Rich and masculine and Peter wasn’t sure if it wasn’t going to his head faster than the gin. 

There wasn’t a hair out of place on his head, and despite the fact that they were in the desert in mid-August, there was not a hint of a shine to his forehead. He was perfectly composed. 

Peter swallowed against the sudden dryness in his throat, consciously restraining himself from licking his lips. He decided another topic of conversation, any other topic of conversation would be a good idea.

“They’ve been showing reruns of the Colgate Comedy Hour on my hotel television. How did you get all that past the censors?”

“Oh, you know. The age of innocence.” Dean replied with a smirk. “They really did let us get away with murder back then.”

Dean’s easy manner had already started to calm Peter. His face relaxed into a smile. “Must be nice – the creative control.”

“You would have had that though, with your show?”

“Well, every show on the West End has to go past the official censor of stage plays in Britain.”

“Really?” Dean’s eyes widened comically.

“There’s always improvisation.” Peter added. “Nothing quite like the rush, and the unexpected results from the other performers.”

Dean nodded sagely. “Finish the show, straight to the green room, clothes torn asunder.”

Peter’s gaze turned somewhat wistful. “Something like that.”

“Ah, but that’s nothing.” Dean continued. “Nothing like the thrill after filming one of the live tapings. The crowd going crazy, racing back to your trailer for a quick change. One thing leads to another and it’s a race to the finish, with only time for one winner.”

Peter knew what Dean was getting at, and he finally let his eyes rake over the older man, taking in the tanned olive skin, impossibly dark eyes, the subtle laugh and smile lines, and the full lips that Peter suddenly wanted to kiss more than anything.

As those lips parted into a grin, Peter lifted his gaze to meet Dean’s eyes.

“So, what will you be having, then?”

“I’ll have what you’re having.”

“Is that so?” He felt Dean’s gaze linger on his own lips and, feeling their dryness darted his tongue out to wet them. Dean’s eyes burned as he passed him a single malt. Peter felt a shiver as their fingers touched. 

They faced the bar and appeared to contemplate their drinks, equally fascinated by the wood grain of the countertop. They both readily finished their glasses and Peter broke the silence.

“Would you like to move this somewhere quieter?”

Dean chuckled gently, his eyes doing an obvious sweep of the virtually patronless bar.

“Why, yes I would. My room is on third.”

They took the stairs, barely composed enough to take them one at a time. They were both breathless by the time they reached the third floor. 

Dean guided him down the hall with a hand at the small of his back and Peter felt the jitters of earlier returning. He was wishing now, more than ever, that he had the presence of mind to carry a hip flask.

They got to the door, and Dean pulled a flask out of his inside jacket pocket. “Here you go, kid.”

Peter took it gratefully, while Dean fumbled with his room key.

No sooner had Dean shut the door behind them than he turned around and pressed his body up against Peter’s, pinning him to the door.

Peter’s hands moved straight to his hips, grasping and pulling at them instinctively, in an attempt to bring them even closer together.

He groaned in frustration at the layers of clothing between them.

“Easy, tiger.” Dean growled in his ear. Dean’s left arm was up by his head, and his right hand was busy extracting belts from belt loops and fumbling with fastenings.

“I want – “ Peter started. He didn’t know what he wanted. He didn’t want Dean to stop. He knocked his head back into the door in unconscious frustration.

When Dean spoke, there was a hint of amusement in his voice, “Y’know, I’ve got a bit of an ear for accents. Now, most Limeys we get over here lose their refined accents as they get… excited, but you…”

He looked at Peter in wonder.

“You really are what they call a toff, aren’t you?”

“Pembroke College, Cambridge.” Peter replied in his most natural accent. The one that was instilled in him from the age of seven throughout ten years of boarding school.

Peter raised his hands, placing one behind Dean’s head, holding it in place, and cradling his left cheek in the other. With Dean’s face framed, he licked a stripe up from his jaw to below his ear, tugging on the earlobe with his teeth. 

Dean’s hips ground forward, while he pulled his head back out of reach. “Hey, hey, hey. What’s with the licking?” 

“I’ve wanted to do that since you sat down next to me.”

Peter shrieked in delight as Dean lifted him up like he weighed nothing, marching him over to the bed and tossing him back onto it before falling on him, catching his weight on his forearms either side of Peter’s head.

“I know what they’re paying you out here. You could have anyone, why me?”

“Well,” Peter said, breathless and looking up at this Adonis who was seeming to have a moment of existential panic, “I thought you might be a challenge.”

Dean deftly divested Peter of his tie and started undoing the buttons of his shirt, running his large warm hands along the planes of Peter’s mostly hairless chest. The gentle massage was doing nothing to dampen Peter’s excitement and everything to highlight the firm pressure and how absent it was from other regions of his body.

“Well, you thought wrong, boy.”

Peter felt a shiver run down his spine at the sound of the affectionate epithet. 

Dean ducked his head to give much needed attention to the join between Peter’s shoulder and neck, tonguing it, kissing it, and just when it was getting overly sensitive, sinking his teeth into it. Not enough to break the skin, but enough pressure and suction that he’d be needing to wear a turtleneck for the next couple of days.

Peter settled for moaning and trying to keep a handle on his own arousal. It would be mortifying if he lost it at this stage. He insinuated a hand between their bodies and found Dean’s erection. Dean’s earlier work of undoing fastenings and buckles made it an easy job for him to make direct contact with his briefs, finally able to wrap his hand around and give a few firm strokes.

Dean growled in his ear and Peter’s brain short circuited. The man’s voice was pure sex, and while he’d known it from records and films, that was nothing compared with having it so close to his ear, the breath vibrating the hairs on his neck. He hadn’t known how much he’d needed this.

He managed another few strokes before Dean’s body shuddered against his, and he thought he heard a sob close to his ear. 

Peter was so close to coming himself, he thought if he could just get both of them there at the same time, it might be less humiliating.

Dean surprised him again, sitting up and placing a knee between Peter’s spread legs, lifting his body around to set on his lap. Peter’s head spun from the loss of equilibrium.

Dean’s face was pressed against his bare chest, and the sharp breaths against the fine hairs of his stomach tickled. Peter started playing with the hairs at the nape of Dean’s neck and Dean groaned against him, his neck folding back in pleasure.

Dean’s feet were firmly on the floor as he sat at the foot of the bed with a lap full of Peter.

“I don’t think we’ve even kissed yet.” Peter observed.

“We’re just getting to know each other a little, first.” Dean looked up at him. With this position, he was several inches shorter than Peter. Peter couldn’t help himself running his fingers through the man’s hair. It was thick and soft and short and the way Dean’s eyes shone as he was given a scalp massage took his breath away.

“We’re already, you know – doing it.”

“Oh are we?” Dean removed his hand from where it had been tracing idle patterns on Peter’s hip. He reached behind Peter, dipping below the waistband of his slacks, and ran his index finger firmly up the centreline of his briefs.

Peter let out a loud moan as the finger pressed against him. It was like Dean was trying to finger him through his pants.

“Y-yes.”

Dean was prepared to do anything to hear that moan once more, so he ran his finger along the divide again. He was not disappointed as he heard the guttural moan and saw Peter’s face go slack with pleasure. 

Dean ran his finger along a third time, pausing when he reached his destination and just letting the pressure settle, heavy with implication. Peter stifled his moan by biting his own lip. Dean looked into his eyes, the dark of his pupils had expanded so only a sliver of icy blue iris remained around them.

Nothing could prevent the growl Dean released in his ear. Peter convulsed against him once. “I don’t want you biting back those moans, boy. I want to hear you.”

The velvet voice growling at him, the friction as he rubbed up against Dean’s stomach and the lone finger teasing him mercilessly had Peter going over the edge with one last deep groan.

Peter’s eyes had shut tight as he came. When he opened them, he saw Dean beaming up at him.

He wanted to shut his eyes again immediately, embarrassed at how quickly it was all over. But what could he have done against such an onslaught? 

Dean’s smile turned indulgent. He brushed the tousled locks of Peter’s hair from his face, smoothing it back. He moved his hand lower and started rubbing comforting circles against his sweat-soaked back.

“It’s okay, babe. I’ve got you.”

“I wanted it to last longer.” Peter’s voice was small. 

“Oh boy, we’re just getting started. Now I get to take my time with you.”

**Author's Note:**

> I own only a guitar and pen; and the guitar is borrowed.
> 
> These are fictional depictions of real people. There is literally zero chance of this having happened. Please don't sue me.


End file.
